


Recovery Period

by Juli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:02:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juli/pseuds/Juli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson woke alone and counted it a victory</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery Period

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2010, after the finale of the first season. Events of season two make this AU.

John Watson woke alone and counted it a victory. Since the debacle with Moriarity at the swimming pool, John had either been in the hospital under the watchful eyes of its staff or under the less professional, though no less vigilant, attention of his lover. For the first time in days, the chair next to the bed was empty. John hoped that Sherlock was resting, but knew it was far from likely. Such practicality was simply not Sherlock’s way.

Those initial thoughts ran through John’s head quickly and he next became aware that he was in relatively little pain. That was decidedly odd, since even as he healed, waking was usually accompanied by throbbing agony from several points in his body. John savored the lack of pain as he lay quietly and, as he did, he vaguely remembered waking earlier. The memories were hazy, mostly of Sherlock’s voice, unusually soft, urging him to drink. Sure enough, there was a glass, a piece of paper and a pill bottle on the bedside table. 

Moving carefully, John reached for the paper and smiled as he recognized his lover’s scrawling scribble. It was a medication schedule and totally unnecessary, at least for the man who‘d written it. John had no doubt that Sherlock would be able to remember John’s medication regime for the rest of his life. The schedule was for John’s sake. Seeing that he’d just been given painkillers two hours before, John began the slow and careful process of sitting up.

It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t fun, but after several minutes, John was successfully seated at the edge of the bed. He sat there while he caught his breath and waited for the darkness to leave his vision. Sherlock didn’t come bursting in, so he must have managed not to make any noise. 

John glanced briefly at his slippers. They looked impossibly far away and John discarded the notion of putting them on. It simply wasn’t worth the effort. Similarly, he chose not to don his robe. True, John felt a little chilled, but putting the robe on would cause him to move his body in ways that would likely be painful. Instead, John wrapped his arms around himself and shuffled towards the door.

The flat was unusually quiet. Although John was just waking, it was late afternoon. He wasn’t used to napping, but his body seemed to need it. John found himself drifting off at the most unexpected moments. At least this time he’d apparently made it to his bed. He knew, therefore, that Sherlock was still in the flat, despite how quiet it was. John rather hoped he’d find the younger man sprawled on the sofa, taking a nap of his own. Lord knew that Sherlock needed it.

Sherlock had shown an uncharacteristic protective streak since John had been injured. It might have been because Moriarity’s true target had been Sherlock himself or it might have been because John had borne the brunt of the blast due to shoving Sherlock into the swimming pool ahead of him. Or there might have been a third possibility. Sherlock was too new to the whole concept of being lovers, but he was a quick study and had a tendency to go overboard. John never believed the highly functioning sociopath label that Sherlock had given himself; hopefully Sherlock’s care of John since the explosion had proven it to others.

Only a few steps out of the bedroom and John’s hopes of finding a napping Sherlock were dashed. His lover was on the sofa all right, but wide awake instead of sleeping. Sherlock was stretched across the cushions. He held his violin like a ukulele and was moving his fingers along the neck of the instrument, but no sound came out. Even from across the room, John could see that Sherlock’s eyes were unfocused. He was touched. Clearly Sherlock was deep in thought and using his violin to help him think, but he did so silently, presumably so that John’s nap wouldn’t be disturbed.

John decided that he didn’t like the look on Sherlock’s face. It was a little too sad and a little too worried for his comfort. Sherlock was far too pale and there were bags under his eyes. John was the one who’d been severely hurt, but Sherlock looked altogether too wounded for John’s taste.

Intending to get to his lover and comfort him, John moved as quickly as his injured body would allow. His focus was on Sherlock, but he should have spared some for the floor in front of him. John stepped on something that was small, but had sharp corners. The unexpected pain was minimal compared to the rest of the damage to his body, but it was an unexpected sensation for his bare feet to encounter. 

John tensed and pulled his foot away quickly. It was an instinctive response but an unfortunate one. The movement caused a domino effect in his body, muscles that he’d been avoiding using jerked and the resultant agony made John cry out. It was bad enough that his vision grayed out at the edges and the world tilted.

When John could think again, he discovered that he wasn’t on the floor. He was still upright and being supported by a lean, but surprisingly strong, form.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Sherlock’s voice was demanding, but his grip as he held John was gentle.

“I was bored,” John panted the words out. “You should be thankful I didn’t take a gun and start shooting a pattern into the wall.”

“Where are your slippers?” Sherlock demanded, ignoring the obvious dig at his past behavior.

John sagged against his lover. “Too much work.”

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s waist and helped him towards the sofa. “And you say I’m the daft one about taking care of myself.”

“You are,” John agreed calmly. With Sherlock’s help, it didn’t hurt so much to walk. “When did you eat last?”

Although he made a noise of frustration, Sherlock didn’t answer. He settled John on the sofa, and pointed one of those long fingers at John’s face. “Stay.”

John was tempted to woof at Sherlock, but given the level of irritation in the younger man’s face, left it off. He did watch with mild interest as Sherlock began rooting around in a basket of what looked to be freshly laundered clothing. That sight was worth savoring, since clean, folded clothing was a rarity in their flat. Mrs. Hudson must have once again bent her rule about being their landlady and not their housekeeper. 

“Aha!” Sherlock stood, waving a pair of socks triumphantly. 

To John’s embarrassment, Sherlock brought the socks to him and knelt to put them on John’s feet.

“Leave off,” John protested. “I can do it myself”

Sherlock snorted. “And that’s why you left your slippers off?” He tutted as he tugged the first sock on. “Your skin is clammy and your respiration is accelerated. You’re in pain, John, so don’t be an ass and let me help you.”

“Fine,” John wished he didn’t sound like a petulant teenager, but seemed powerless to stop it.

Sherlock stood and admired his handwork. John’s feet were sock-clad and, though he would never admit it, John did have to admit that it helped. Not that he would have to admit it to Sherlock, who could deduce something so elementary easier than blinking.

“Right then, now to get your dressing gown,” Sherlock made as if to leave the room.

“No!” 

The stridency of his voice surprised even John, but it had the desired effect. Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him. “But you’re cold, John. You’ve goose pimples on your skin and you’re shivering.”

“I don’t need my dressing gown,” John corrected. He scooted back on the sofa, the small movement causing him to wince. 

Sherlock noticed John’s discomfort and started forward. “John? You need-. . . .”

“I need you,” John interrupted him. He patted the cushion next to him. “Come here.”

Although clearly confused, Sherlock obeyed. He approached the sofa and gingerly sat down. “Getting a chill won’t do you any good.”

“I’m not going to get chilled,” John assured him. He gravitated towards Sherlock, curling into the warmth of the taller man’s body. “You’ll keep me warm.”

“Your dressing gown would be more efficient,” Sherlock huffed.

John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. “But it wouldn’t be nearly as nice.” 

Sherlock’s arm came around John and settled him closer, but Sherlock himself remained somewhat stiff. John stayed quiet, knowing that his lover would open up when he was ready and not a moment sooner.

“You almost died,” Sherlock finally said. “I didn’t like that.”

John snorted and then wrapped his arm around his stomach as it hurt. “I didn’t care much for it either.”

Sherlock put a hand under John’s chin and turned his face up. “Don’t do that again.”

“What?” John blinked up at Sherlock. “Push you into a swimming pool to save you from the explosion you caused to save us from a deranged genius’ army of sharpshooters?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock replied.

“ I doubt that exact set of circumstances will happen again,” John settled his head back down, this time on Sherlock’s chest. “But if it does, all promises are off.” 

Sherlock was speechless for a moment, but only a moment. “You really are an stubborn ass, aren’t you?”

“Takes one to know one,” John murmured. The lullaby of Sherlock’s heartbeat was having an affect on him and he yawned. “Besides, you’ll catch him, Sherlock. You always do. Moriarity doesn’t stand a chance.”

“You sound awfully sure,” Sherlock started stroking John’s hair and John sighed in contentment at the sensation. “Moriarity may be my equal, John.”

John shook his head, not bothering to keep his eyes open. “He’s not. He’s smart and he’s ruthless, but he doesn’t have the advantage you have.”

“And what’s that?” Sherlock sounded genuinely curious.

“Me,” John yawned again. “You have me. I have your back, Sherlock. Always.”

The petting of his hair didn’t falter for a moment. “I know that, John. Now, get some rest. I need you at your best to continue the chase.” 

Another man might have taken that statement at face value and been offended, but not John. He knew too well what he meant to Sherlock; knew why Moriarity had chosen him in an attempt to ‘burn the heart out’ of the detective. Like Sherlock had stated, though, John was stubborn, although he preferred to think of it as being loyal.

Just before he drifted completely off to sleep, John felt Sherlock bend down and kiss the top of his head. “You're right, having you will make all the difference. You make me a better man, John.”

Content, John slept.

~the end~


End file.
